31 Days of Green Acres - Day 15

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Remember my son, you know the one who was struggling to write a paper for his college class?

He got "unstuck" while I'm still trying to find my way.

It is not a small irony that he chose to write about Liberty Farm.

I know you want to read it.

It's good.

And, you always see things here from my point of view.
His is similar, but with his own voice.

Prepare to be amazed.

I might be biased, but I think he should get an "A". Just sayin'.

His criteria- 2 pages.  Begin with the words, "I'm from..."

Liberty Farm

       I’m from Liberty Farm, a modest 1,700 square foot house that rests on a beautiful plot of ten acres, with two barns and a big hole we call the pond. The house, which is set only thirty feet from the road is almost always sheltered from the sun by two gigantic trees both of which stand towering over the house, one to the east and one to the south. The tree that grows to the east is a Catalpa, and like many trees of this variety it has grown to be very old, and also very large. Its long curving branches extend to almost unimaginable lengths, holding up the large heart shape leaves native to its kind. This tree is a favorite of the barn cats who make a regular habit of being stuck in its lofty heights. Equal in magnitude to the Catalpa, the tree to the south is a maple. Humungous gnarly branches raised ever toward the sky are now adorned with the red leaves of fall.

     Behind the shadowed wall of trees lies my house, a tall yellow affair, with statuesque narrow white trimmed windows, and dark red shutters. From the outside, it appears a pleasant place to live, and it is. Warm old maple boards cover most of the floor, sanded smooth with meticulous attention to detail. The wood has retained all of its original glory. Deep grooves between the planks, filled with dust and debris from decades before, provide dark lines of contrast against the amber glow of the boards. Thick white trim borders the floor. Spattered with scuffs and scratches,the trim bears the marks of many shoes and feet which have traveled this way before. A mix of ceiling fixtures and exposed light bulbs cast their illuminating rays down throughout the house, and give light to the robin's egg blue staircase which leads upstairs.

     Upstairs is a clear view of the barns, both bright red works in progress. The horse barn is used

for almost everything except horses. The roof, covered in solar panels, looks incongruent on the otherwise very old barn. Like a black eye, the square clean lines of the panels appear uncomfortable and unnatural, like dark bruises on an otherwise unblemished face. This disparity vanishes in light of their practical purpose, providing renewable energy for the farm.

     Under the roof, the dusty old barn serves to primarily house chickens, and tall towers of boxes. Chickens provide the unmistakable smell of live stock, further adding nostalgia while the boxes, although unsightly, make room for improvements in the other barn, known simply as the pole barn. Skinned in thin red aluminum siding the pole barn still wears its original color, while the roof's formerly steely hue has given way to the rust that comes with age. Inside the hard, dark, gray concrete floor is a recent addition, along with the half done ceiling. This barn does not smell like chickens, but rather, piles of lumber which will soon make up the rest of the ceiling and walls. The very back of the pole barn tucks into the fence like a plug in a dam holding in seven acres of pasture.

     Used for raising cows, the pasture has three small shelters placed throughout. The expanse of grass now faded yellow with the onslaught of fall, is hunched over, tired from a long season of growth. Low lying brambles now in view reside in the back of the property, a thorny bed I to this day have never seen a cow tired enough to sleep on. The fences that encase most of our property makes a square.

     On freedom's side of the fence, our pond, really more of a puddle is home to six ducks. Following this summer's drought the water is only about three inches deep, but come spring that will change and it can reach depths of almost four feet. Our farm ducks much prefer the greater pond depth of spring.

     Though I haven’t always called Liberty Farm my home it seems difficult to imagine living anywhere else. The lifestyle of the farm is something I've grown to love. At first, having moved away from a busy neighborhood, the relative isolation of rural living was disconcerting. Gradually, the palpable simplicity of life at Liberty Farm with its wide open spaces and sustainable way of living has yielded contentment.

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